


the stones of london

by sinkburrito



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Canon Era, Case Fic, Love Confessions, M/M, Orchestral Elements, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, like really intense pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 03:40:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21219965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinkburrito/pseuds/sinkburrito
Summary: Holmes and Watson attend the orchestra, but Holmes is shocked to discover that his favorite violinist did not achieve the position of concertmaster. Determined to discover why, Holmes and Watson pursue different paths to discover the truth about Jonathan Phillips.(OCs are side characters that I needed for the plot.)





	the stones of london

**Author's Note:**

> "Up to the time he met Chopin, Liszt was primarily a banger." -- "The Lives of the Great Composers" - Harold C. Schonberg
> 
> "Do you realize I would have gone through life half awake if you'd had the decency to leave me alone?" -- Clive Durham in "Maurice" (1987)
> 
> "Music was his language, the divine tongue through which he expressed a whole realm of sentiments that only the select few can appreciate..." -- Franz Liszt in "Life of Chopin"

_ the stones of london _

_ “The stones of which the strongest London buildings are made, are not more real, or more impossible to be displaced by your hands, than your presence and influence have been to me, there and everywhere, and will be.” - Great Expectations, Charles Dickens _

_ The Case of the Curious Concertmaster - Late October, 1891 _

Some days, when rain clatters against the window pane for what seems like years on end, the inhabitants of all the rooms of London will sit and pine for sunshine at the window, mourning the loss of warmth and dryness. The sturdy stones of London weather these days as they do all others, standing tall against the elements. 

  
If one decided to ask Holmes, he would tell them that rainwater erodes different stones differently, depending on their composition. He would then launch into an explanation of the types of stones found in London and their reaction with rainwater, if he discerned that he had caught your attention well.

To Holmes, this type of day is what it seems like when the mysteries run dry and criminals retreat into their holes. The boredom that seeps through the cracks in the walls like the chill of a rainy day dogs his every step, weathering his peace of mind. That is the state in which this story begins.

Holmes, as was his habit, had begun to migrate from one place to another in our sitting room, as if each place began to stifle him if he sat still for too long. He would sit on the couch for a few minutes, become restless, then stride over to his chemistry set to dabble for a while. When the chemicals became too predictable, he would take refuge in the violin, but that too would begin to shriek when no tune was satisfying enough. 

“Holmes,” I said one evening as his bow string crunched over the strings. The rosin leaped from his bow in a dusty cloud, defined by the sunlight that shone through the windows. It diffused through the air around him, surrounding him like some sort of miasma. “Let us go out and do something. A walk, perhaps? Somewhere for lunch? We could go to the park, feed the ducks. Or maybe we could see the orchestra. They’re playing something by Mendelssohn tonight; you like him well enough.”

Holmes gently set the bow down; he always treated his violin with the utmost care, afraid the fragile instrument might crack or scratch somewhere. “I would be amenable to Mendelssohn,” he mused, wiping the rosin dust off the bow before placing it in the case. He smiled at me, chasing away the rain clouds. “How lucky am I that you keep track of the performances! I might have missed this, and you do know how I like Mendelssohn.”

My heart skipped a beat, though I shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course he knew that I watched the performances for something he might like; he knew me well enough that my love for him was practically the cover of my book, not its contents. In that moment, I supposed it was enough that my actions pleased him if he could not return my love in kind. I was reminded of a phrase once uttered during a case we had solved together: it had been something about love living on crumbs alone. 

“Yes,” I managed, once I had got control of my tongue again. “Tea?” I asked.   
  
“Yes, thank you,” he answered absently. I turned from him to hide my besotted smile. It was in moments like these that it was hardest to hide my heart from him. I loved to watch him think, watch the minute dartings of his eyes as he pieced together puzzles in his mind; the quietude when it was just us in our sitting room, the calm domestic scene. 

I busied my hands by preparing the tea. That morning, I reflected on how, if given the choice, I would live in slow mornings when sunlight leaked through the windows and we sat in companionable silence. Yes, I loved him in the electric crime scenes where we crouched knee to knee in the darkness, waiting for the suspect to confirm what he already knew. I loved him in the quick chases, in the tense confrontations, in the frantic following of clues, and the euphoric thrill of a case solved; but I loved him best when he drank tea with me in our home and mused over cases while I read the newspaper. 

“Here,” I said quietly as I handed him a cup of tea. His fingers brushed mine slightly as I handed it to him and I felt that ever-present longing leap up and seep down through my legs. I quashed it down as I sat in my chair and opened the paper. I could never show to Holmes the depths of my regard for him. I could not risk losing this. 

And even though I thought I might see some glimmer of reciprocation in him some days, they were not enough to stake my life on; for that was what it would be, if I confessed to him. Oh, I do not fear that he would have me put to death, but for him to leave me would be death enough. 

  
  


~~~

That evening we went to see the orchestra. They were indeed playing Mendelssohn, for whom Holmes has a greater partiality than he would like to admit. Mendelssohn has been called dull and rigid by some; uncreative, perhaps. But Holmes takes pleasure in his music, I think,  _ because  _ of the classicalness of it. I am no musician, but I know there is a certain comfort to it that draws me to it. I suppose it is a signifier that Holmes, too, craves the comfort of regularity on occasion. 

The orchestra continued the discordant medley of warming up as Holmes and I shuffled into our seats. The warm glow of spotlights lit the stage, casting the players in autumn hues. I busied myself with reading the programme, while Holmes studied the players.

I felt him stiffen beside me and I glanced up. “What is it?”

“That is not right.” he muttered. “The second chair first violin. That is Jonathan Phillips.”

“What is not right about that?” I asked. I knew Holmes was interested in the affairs of the orchestra, but I did not know that he knew the players by name, though it did not surprise me. 

He sat back in his chair, still pensive. “The former concertmaster, Ms. Hahn, has left the orchestra to join a more prestigious one. I had been sure that Mr. Phillips would take the position, but it seems to have gone to someone else, though I cannot think of anyone in that orchestra that would suffice.”

“Perhaps he merely had a bad day?” I suggested, though the situation had begun to intrigue me, if only to have something to attach Holmes’ attention to in order to dispel his black mood. 

He shook his head. “Even on a bad day, Jonathan Phillips would easily gain the concertmaster position over any one of his compatriots.”

“You have quite a high opinion of him,” I commented. I tried my best to not feel jealous; I am not sure if I succeeded. It was quite rare indeed to hear him speak so highly of anyone.

“He is a good musician,” Holmes admitted. “But look! The orchestra has stopped practicing. The concertmaster will make their appearance soon.”

A young man walked onstage to applause, and smiled nervously as he bowed. He was a man of fair complexion, with pale blonde hair and a bright face. He seemed almost unusually pale, not unlike my colleague. As he turned to tune the orchestra, I observed Mr. Phillips. He was tall and lean, with a gentle face, coiffed black hair, and the complexion of one who spends much time outside, though not doing hard work; rather he likely enjoyed to idle in the outdoors. However, his face was quite tired and drawn. He seemed to bear no ill will towards the new concertmaster, and when he sat down next to him, he turned to him and seemed to say something with a reassuring smile. The conductor began to speak, introducing the new concertmaster and thanking the patrons. I was distracted from my observation of the section leaders as Holmes began to whisper to me in the dark of the concert hall.

“That is Mr. Ellis Pocket,” Holmes whispered to me, “It does not make sense! Although Mr. Pocket could be described as a good musician, Phillips is leagues above him. No director in their right mind would choose Pocket over Phillips unless there was some other factor at play.”

  
I resigned myself to not knowing what the conductor had to say.

“The dusting of rosin on Mr. Pocket’s violin is thicker than those of the other players. This shows that he had been practicing much before the concert and was nervous enough to not wipe it off. His shoes do not match the orchestra’s uniform, though they are mostly covered by his pants which are slightly oversized. He also has bags under his eyes. These all point to the fact that he has been nervous for this performance and underprepared. Perhaps because he usurped the concertmaster position?”

I hummed to acknowledge him. Onstage, the conductor was wrapping up his speech and Mr. Phillips had reached out to pat Mr. Pocket’s shoulder in a brief moment, but appeared to have thought better of it and retracted his hand before he had seen it. 

“Mr. Phillips has recently come into some money, judging by the appearance of a watch that I have not known him to wear at any other performances. Furthermore-”

By now, the orchestra had begun to play, but I was enraptured by his deductions. He had leaned closer to whisper in my ear as not to disturb the other patrons, and I could focus on nothing else but his deep voice in my ear and the hot rush of his breath against my neck. I felt like I was privy to a great secret when he whispered to me like this, the two of us in a world of our own. I regretted it deeply when he finally leaned back into his own seat to enjoy the remainder of the performance. 

After the Mendelssohn, they performed the Romeo and Juliet Overture by Tchaikovsky. I found my gaze wandering from the performers to my companion. He appeared utterly entranced by the music, a dreamy half-smile dangling from his lips as it always did when he watched the orchestra. He conducted in time with a finger, minute movements confined to the arm of his chair. I confess, I must have lied when I claimed I loved him best at home. Surely, this moment must be the one in which I loved him best, when the music claimed his soul, and he seemed to be party to another world.

  
  


By chance, I had turned my attention back to the performers at the reiteration of the main theme. The strings swelled wildly and romantically and it was then that I caught the moment that defined my understanding of this entire matter. Mr. Phillips’ face was turned towards his stand partner, almost so that he faced the audience rather than his stand. This was how I first noticed him. Then my gaze drifted from his bow to his face, upon which the most openly yearning look was displayed. His eyes were not on his music, but on Mr. Pocket. Pocket was performing with heated gusto, but Phillips seemed to be playing by muscle memory alone as he watched Pocket’s every move. 

His face shone with adoration as he stared at his stand partner. The moment, to me, seemed crystallized in time, a single instant in which Phillips seemed to bare his soul to the world, seemingly without notice or intention. It hung there in the balance, reflected from the shine of the lights off the burnished wood, lingering like vibrato from an ended note. It slipped in between the notes, an instant unwritten in the music. In music, Holmes has told me, a  _ rest  _ is as important as a note, if not more. It is a moment of silence that the other notes might contextualize themselves around; yet, it was not quite a rest, as rests had places in the music assigned to them. A breath mark then, a quick retake of the bow to set things right. A brief moment between moments.

I felt as if the world had taken a brief respite from the driving force of time; then it was over, and the look was gone, replaced with the quick snap of his eyes back to his music. If I had not seen it a second before, I would not have believed that it had been there. Phillips appeared to play as he had before: impeccably and undistracted. Yet, in that brief moment, he had shaken me to my core. For there, displayed before me, was the look I saw every day, reflected back to me in shop windows, mirrors, and the lake in the park we frequented. It was the look of a man in love. 

I think I would have wholly missed it, if I had been unable to recognize it. But once I saw it, I watched him like a hawk for the rest of the performance. He played perfectly without a single glance at Pocket for the rest of it. I was beginning to think I had simply imagined it when, as the audience began to applaud, and Mr. Pocket rose to bow, Phillips gazed up at him with the purest love in his eyes. I know Holmes often calls me a romantic, but I do not think I exaggerate in this instance. It is simply what I saw in him, in the brief instant which it was displayed. I am familiar with the ways in which one contains that particular emotion beneath the compromising canvas of human expression, and the ways it manifests despite efforts to stop it. 

“I believe I have reached a conclusion,” Holmes declared as we exited the concert hall. He linked his arm in mine, and the warm press of his body against me warded off the chill autumn night wonderfully. 

“And what is that?” I asked.

“That Mr. Pocket bribed Mr. Phillips into relinquishing the position, but is now second guessing himself and his performance.” I chuckled. He looked at me askance. “Do you disagree?”   
  


“I do,” I said mirthfully. “But I will not tell you why, as payback for the many times you have kept me in the dark until the conclusion of the case. I will investigate my idea and you yours, and then we will see who is right.”

I think I shocked him then, for his eyes widened in the lamp light. I do not not know why I disputed him, if only because I knew I was right. Then he grinned like a great shark, teeth bright and gleaming. “Ha! A bet then? If I am right, then you will allow me to make any corrections I wish to your next case published in the Strand. No romanticism, only the facts.”

“Yes,” I found myself agreeing, “And if you are wrong, as I suspect you are, then…” I racked my brain for something to ask from him, and my mind fell upon the picture of Mr. Phillips gazing up at Mr. Pocket. “Then I will pick any piece I want, and you must learn it upon the violin.”

“Of course,” he frowned, “Why would I not?”   
  
“ _ Any _ piece,” I reminded him, “Even if it were fiddle music.” I had long been partial to jigs and dances played upon the fiddle, though Holmes had made his distaste known for just as long. Selfish though it may have been, I wanted to hear him play something he had learned just for me.    
  
He pulled a face as if he had just tasted a lemon. “I do not care for fiddle music.”   
  


“Whatever I want,” I said sweetly. 

He nodded. “Deal,” he agreed, holding out his hand. We shook on it, then returned to our apartment. 

In an inversion of our usual routine, he went to bed first. I sat smoking for a long time, thinking of Mr. Phillips and Mr. Pocket. Did Mr. Pocket know of Phillips’ regard for him? My first instinct was to say that he must, but then I remembered my own situation. Surely, Holmes did not know how I felt, or if he did, he simply ignored it. Likewise, it was not certain that Mr. Pocket knew of Mr. Phillips’ feelings for him. Thinking of them struck such a chord within me that, when I could contain myself no more, I rushed to the bathroom to observe my face when I thought of Holmes. I could not bring myself to recreate the expression in the mirror, try as I might, not with my own eyes staring back at me. I had only ever seen it in the moment, passing a reflective surface as we walked, out of the corner of my eye, and it had always faded upon recognition.

Did I look like that? I wondered, agonizing over it for hours. Was my heart so clearly displayed to the world? More importantly, did Holmes know? Perhaps he was merely being kind, pretending to not know the secret I kept in order to spare my feelings. Yet, he had not noticed them today. Or did he, and just not tell me? 

When the smoke became too thick, I opened a window and cleansed my mind in the cool night breeze. I turned my mind to the case at hand and began to attempt to follow Holmes’ logic. 

Their performance today did not seem to indicate any large chasm of skill between them; in fact, in the moments when Mr. Phillips lost himself, Mr. Pocket appeared to play better than he. I was beginning to doubt Holmes’ assertion that there was a greater evil at work. As far as I could see, there was nothing there that signified any injustice. Then again, I am no expert of music.

The city had darkened and it was twilight outside. The stars sparkled ostentatiously, like a bedazzled sky of rich jewels. I decided to go for a walk; suffocating in the smoke of my own pipe was Holmes’ hobby, not mine. Fresh air invigorated my senses and fortified my mind more than the indoors, despite London’s miasma of smog. While getting my coat, I noticed Holmes’ address book on his desk. Wondering if I might find Phillips or Pocket, I flipped through it and noticed that Jonathan Phillips, at least, was indeed there. The page was dogeared recently, but there had been an attempt to smooth out the page, mildly successful. With the address in mind, I began my walk, planning to leisurely circle round to it.

I walked from one spot of lamp light to the next, often gazing up at the moon. I think I walked for hours, lost in my own thoughts. The passing of time seemed as clouds over the moon, intangible and abstract. I did not notice any sort of fatigue in my feet, only a distant sense of dissatisfaction. No amount of walking seemed enough to quell the restlessness of my feet, nor to clear my mind of the myriad of doubts and fears that surrounded this case. Central to these was the fear that Holmes would discover that the depth of my love for him was not strictly platonic, and cast me out in disgust. These were the thoughts that plagued me when I reached the destination I had all but forgotten. I had been walking an eternity when I heard the sweet sounds of a violin echo into the street. Of course; I had made my way to Mr. Phillips’ apartment after all. 

I recognized the excerpt: a dulcet cutting from Mendelssohn’s violin concerto. I looked up, hoping to catch a sight of the musician at work. I was not disappointed, for he stood in the window. Even in the darkness of night, I could tell that the building was rather run down, though not decrepit. Certainly no Baker Street, yet a step up from some of the nastier parts of London. Mr. Phillips was backlit by a wavering candle, the warmth of its light emanating out into the chilly night. Far from casting him in a warm glow, the candlelight seemed to highlight his own paleness. This was the opposite of the warm stage lights; this was a thin, waxy candle that made him appear far paler than earlier. He looked drawn, stretched thin; fatigue seemed to cloak him, unhindered by the candlelight’s strength. When he had finished his excerpt, he went back to the beginning and started anew, somehow more ardently than the last time. Despite the fatigue, he seemed determined to perfect this excerpt, yet it had a raw sound, unmistakably one of a musician who knew he performed for no one and allowed his soul to truly enter the song.

An idea formed in my mind, half-cocked but plausible. I gathered my wits and stood beneath the window. 

“Hello!” I called softly as the excerpt seemed to conclude once more. “Mister Violinist!”   
  
Mr. Phillips put down his instrument and peered curiously out the window. “Yes? And who are you?” 

“I am merely a fellow on a walk. You play wonderfully,” I called to him, “But you sound so forlorn. Might I inquire as to the source of your woes? Surely, an excellent musician such as yourself can have no cause to mourn.”

Mr. Phillips seemed even more wan and pale in the light of the moon, a Chopinesque sickly figure, a paragon of Romanticism. “You are very kind,” he sighed, “But I am afraid my troubles are not so easily dashed.” I waited for him to continue expectantly, and he leaned out the window, into the full bath of moonlight. “Unfortunately, it is a matter of the heart.”

“I know those well,” I replied truthfully. 

“Ah, then you may advise me. Tell me, is it possible to be happy when the love you harbor is doomed?” Mr. Phillips asked, quietly, though I could hear every word in the nighttime stillness of the street. There is something strange about the night that makes it easier to reveal secrets long bound to the sinews of one’s heart to perfect strangers. I knew that this conversation never could have taken place in the daylight. Perhaps it was the fact that we were strangers that made it easier to confess; that we would never see one another again. 

“There are many answers to that question. Is your lady love some far off princess, to be pined for from a distance?” I asked with a wry half-smile, knowing he was not.    
  


Mr. Phillips laughed musically, and if my heart had not already belonged to another, I might have fallen half in love with him there. I have always been weak for musicians. “No, only a little more attainable than that. Shall I tell you of her? I have told no other, and my heart craves to reveal its secrets.”

“Tell me,” I said.

“She is very beautiful, with hair like spun gold. She has a freckle on the tip of her nose, and laughs like a startled dog barking. She loves the history of my craft, and always has a new musical fact for me. She--” He broke off, looking pained. “But I have said too much. She does not know of my regard.”   
  


I grinned at him, drunk on moonlight and the longing we shared. I think I was half-mad then, reckless with hope when I replied. “Tell her, then. I see no impossible feat before you. Love, in all its forms, is one of the strongest forces in this world and all the others! One day, that will be common knowledge.”

“I agree!” he laughed. “And I will think on it.” He leaned further out the window, dangerously so. “Kind stranger, may I tell you a secret?”

“I will take it to my grave.”   
  
He grinned conspiratorially, teeth flashing in the moonlight. “I would do anything to keep hi- her by my side, if she wished it, even though she has far brighter futures ahead. Isn’t that selfish and greedy of me?”   
  


I swallowed my heart from where it had become lodged in my throat. My vigor and courage died within me and I felt only shame. “Yes, I suppose it is. Though I cannot say that I would not do the same in your place. I feel like I already have, in some way. I-- I do not think it would be a great crime, though, if she wished it.” I looked down at the pavement away from him, embarrassed. 

He laughed, the loudest sound that had gone between us that night, carefree and light. It startled me, for I thought that after such a confession he would feel ashamed, like I did. “Thank you very much, stranger. I feel as if I had gone to confession, though I find myself unrepentant. I suppose my penance is to continue my practice!” He leaned back and sighed. “The sun is peeking through the chimney stacks now, so I assume you must leave.” I nodded. “Then take your leave of me, and know that you seem to have suppressed my troubles for a night. Heaven-sent you seem to me! I bid you good-night, and a good life.”

“And I wish the same to you,” I said, almost tripping over my own feet as I walked away, trying to retain some glimmer of his form. Suddenly, my hours walking seemed to weigh on me and I could not return to Baker Street fast enough. 

When finally I sank into bed, still in my street clothes, my mind could not piece together the simple truth that lay before me. Instead, it wished to dwell on the violin music I had heard, and my dreams blurred Mr. Phillips’ face into Holmes’ until I felt I could not distinguish them. The last thought in my mind before sleep claimed me was that Phillips’ playing reminded me of when Holmes would stay up late at night to play violin into the paper-thin morning hours, and the sound of it would make its way into my dreams and then I would dream of him, only of him. 

  
  
  


When I came down to breakfast, Holmes was already there. He eyed me over his cup of tea. 

“Good morning,” he said evenly. “I see that you have been out last night.” I had changed my clothes and washed my face, yet I was unsurprised that he could tell.

“Yes, trying to organize my thoughts. I took a walk around the city,” I replied in answer to his unspoken question.

“I have also been active last night,” Holmes announced, “I have visited Mr. Phillips’ only living family to ascertain any internal struggles, and have discovered that his brother, Joel, is sick.”

Ah. So that was why the address book had been dogeared at that place; Holmes had had a similar idea to mine. 

“Well? Do you think he stepped down to care for his brother, then?”

Holmes shook his head impatiently. “No, no. Joel Phillips is sick, but not deadly, and his wife is more than capable of caring for him. They are getting along just fine. Phillips would not accept a bribe to pay for Joel’s doctor bills when the sickness is not serious. It could be for something else, though I know not what.” He leaned back in his chair and heaved a gusting sigh. “Still, I know there is something foul at play. And you? Have you agreed to my conclusion?”

I grinned at his self assuredness and suppressed the urge to fondly kiss his cheek, or show some other sign of affection, as I always did. “You could only be further from the truth.”

He sat back quickly, eyes narrowing in focused confusion. 

“You are correct in that you have undoubtedly assumed that I paid a visit to Mr. Phillips last night. All outward evidence points to your conclusion; his living quarters are not enviable, nor his neighborhood. But I think you have forgotten something quite important, something you ought to have known,” I told him, revelling in the way he studied me, like I was a mystery to be unravelled. I always wished to have his eyes on me, always wished to be the focus of his attention. In our time together, I have envied servants, noblemen, murderers, the odd duke or duchess, the Queen herself. Anyone bold enough to seize Holmes’ attention also received my jealousy. 

“And what is that?”

I suddenly found myself self-conscious, aware that my only theory was not based in evidence except what I had seen that night at the orchestra and my conversation with Phillips. And I could not possibly tell Holmes my theory. Yet, what could I say to him? “He plays violin in the night, just as you do.”

“Yes,” Holmes snapped, “He is a musician. How does this refute my argument?” There was something skittish in him as he answered, though, something that had been caught out.

“And does not a musician value his craft and would not dishonor it with such a thing as bribery? I believe that his motives for stepping down are more obscure than you believe.” I answered.

“I believe that he is a man made of heart, however ill that may mean for him,” I added as I opened the door, lingering there in my unwillingness to leave him. For the first time this morning, Holmes met my gaze, turning around with wide grey eyes. I feared that I had said too much, and I self-consciously dropped my eyes.

The silence stretched out for a moment until I could bear it no longer. “Come, let us forget this matter for a while. Walk with me? We can see the park, then stop for lunch.” I asked, forcing an easy smile. This whole matter made me uneasy in its entanglement with desires so close to my own heart. I wanted nothing more than to spend the day with Holmes and let it fade from my mind. Yet, every move he made brought the earnest Mr. Phillips’ words to my mind.

Yes, I was like him. I would do anything to keep Holmes with me, and I would fall apart if he left, as so neatly shown by my state after that terrible day at Reichenbach. This little apartment, 221B, could hardly contain such genius forever, but I could feel myself scrabbling to hold him to me, like a desperate man at a cliff’s edge. I sometimes felt guilty for dogging him like a besotted retriever; he would often sense these moods and attempt to reassure me that I was indeed wanted here. Yet, Mr. Phillips has torn those fears back to the surface, for what if I was truly being selfish in keeping him here with me? 

And still, I recalled the sharp grin in the moonlight that accompanied his words. It did not match the painful self-deprecation I felt at them. That grin is what haunts my waking dreams, like some poltergeist of the shadows; but that is folly, and I should not blow a short conversation out of proportion.

Holmes’s violinist’s fingers drummed against the table once. He sprang up from the chair like a jack-in-the-box, and I felt some of my lingering unease dissipate at the familiar motion. 

“Yes, quite,” he said, joining me at the door. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then linked his arm through mine. I leaned into him slightly as we left our apartment, taking comfort in the familiar scent of his particular brand of tobacco and the sandalwood and pine in his shaving cream. 

We walked for a while in companionable silence, as we often did. As we approached the park, I sensed a hesitation in his footsteps. 

“This case we have on our hands,” he remarked, speeding his steps as if by the click of a metronome, “It is vexing to me in that I cannot see from your point of view, as I always can after consideration.” I hurried alongside him to keep up. He glanced down at me, and I sensed a hint of worry in him. “You know I treasure your insights.”

“Yes, of course,” I reassured him, though confused. He fell silent once more for a spell. 

“I began to play the violin in my early youth, perhaps five years of age,” he said abruptly, not looking at me. “My brother did not understand, of course. He played piano, but quit soon after beginning. His teacher would tell him that he was not playing with enough  _ musicality _ , which would frustrate him; he did not know how to improve.”

Holmes’ brisk walking pace had me jogging to keep up with him. “Holmes, slow down,” I said. He slowed minutely, but did not look down at me. His agitated stride was still a vigorous pace to follow, and I felt myself falling behind. 

“My teacher always told me I forgot how to play correctly when I put any sort of musicality into it. However, this I could mend. I would practice day and night until my technique was flawless and my notes perfectly in tune. Do you know what my teacher would say when I showed him?” 

His pace began to accelerate again, making it impossible to keep up with his long legs. “Hold on,” I panted, out of breath, “Holmes!” I grabbed his arm to bring us to a stop.

“You’ve lost the beauty of it, Holmes,” he said as I pulled him to face me, “I preferred last week.” I was still holding his arm, though we were both stationary amidst the waving grasses and trees of the park. I caught my breath, searching his face for some clue to his anxiety. His cheeks were tinged pink from the crisp autumn air, and I had no doubt that mine were a florid red. He was wide-eyed, uncharacteristically unsure of himself. 

“Holmes, are you alright?” I asked gently. My grip on his arms lessened, and I made a movement to grasp his shoulders, yet failed and ended up sliding my hands down from his arms, trailing along his fingertips as I left. 

“I am quite fine, my dear Watson,” Holmes replied with an anemic smile. “However, I-- What I am trying to say is that--” Here he paused once more, grasping at the air in frustration. 

“I believe that there are three fundamental aspects of musicianship: the hands, the mind, and the heart. Obviously, the hands are technique and skill. Any professional musician has this because it can be acquired by hard work. The mind refers not to logical intelligence, but creativity and interpretation, the ability to make something fresh out of something old. And finally, the heart is the passion of music, what makes it come alive and what speaks to the soul. It is rarer than you might think to have all these qualities; I know that I certainly do not, which is why I -- I envy professional violinists.”

“Ah,” I murmured, finally thinking that I understood, “This is about the case?” 

He ducked his head, not quite a confirmation. “I have followed the London Symphonic Orchestra closely, and to see any injustice done to a member feels like a personal slight. Jonathan Phillips is a rare performer indeed to have these qualities, and I do wish to give him justice.”

I felt like I ought to say something profound to him, but I did not know quite what he meant yet. “You get awfully romantic when you speak of music,” I teased lightly, “I do not think you have any room to chide me for embellishing our cases.” He smiled at me bashfully, but dropped away. “We will solve this case,” I reassured him, feeling wholly inadequate. He graced me with a wan smile. 

“Yes, I’m sure we will.” His cool grey eyes pierced mine as he lingered in my grip for a moment longer, willing me to understand, it seemed. What, I did not know. 

“I have had an interesting new piece of information come to light,” he said, suddenly turning from me and continuing our stroll. My hand fell from his arm. “Mr. Pocket is engaged to marry Emily Morris, an American whose family owns a large piece of land in Texas. His cowgirl has made quite an impression on his family, it seems. Pocket comes from old money that has deteriorated in this new age, and it is likely that his family wishes her to marry Ms. Morris to replenish their wealth.”

“Oh,” I said, suddenly feeling rather cold. I linked my arm with Holmes’ once more and leaned into him minutely. I felt a sympathetic pain for poor Mr. Phillips, doomed to watch Mr. Pocket marry another. 

“Are you alright, Watson?” Holmes asked, gently. “It is not very cold now.”

“I’m fine,” I answered. 

Holmes waited a moment before continuing, stealing a glance at me worriedly. “As I was saying, if Mr. Pocket has recently come into money, that would give a source for a bribe from Pocket.”

My mind is not generally a quick one. I require time to fully understand and process what is often right before my eyes. I am not by any means stupid; my mind works at the speed of any average man’s, only it takes a moment to connect the thoughts. This had been the moment I had needed.

“If Mr. Pocket married an American, he would leave England,” I said as it dawned on me. 

“Not necessarily,” Holmes corrected, “The London Symphonic is prestigious; he would not leave a concertmaster position to be some farmer in the colonies, no matter how wealthy.” He glanced at me once more, fondly and ferret-quick. “That is not enough evidence to disprove my theory. You will have to try harder.”   
  


“But he might have left a second chair position,” I said, only half aware of Holmes’ words. I considered racing to Mr. Phillips’ apartment to seek confirmation of my epiphany for a brief moment, but remained where I was. What could I say? That I needed to know why he gave Mr. Pocket the concertmaster position? That I knew what he was feeling, surely battered into my heart like water against rocks at the base of a great waterfall? 

“He might have,” Holmes acquiesced. I felt my fervor shrivel up inside. A dilemma presented itself to me, and I cursed myself for not realizing it sooner. I had put Holmes onto this case, and he would get his answers one way or another. For Mr. Phillips, this meant that Holmes would inevitably find the real reason he had relinquished the concertmaster position. I would also have to have some conclusion that was also wrong, for Holmes would question how I saw the love between them, and I had no excuse except that I had recognized it from myself. On the other hand, I could alert Mr. Phillips to the hound that pursued him and create some form of feint to convince Holmes that he was right. However, that required me to reveal myself to Mr. Phillips as someone who had investigated him, as well as an invert. Holmes would notice if I left on another midnight walk and become suspicious.

I slipped my arm out of Holmes’. 

“I think I’m feeling a bit under the weather, actually,” I said. “I will see you at our apartment.”

I broke away from him and left him standing on the pavement in the cool autumn breeze. I could feel his sharp grey eyes trained upon my back as I walked away. 

  
  
  
  


I agonized over my options all day. I continued my excuse of being under the weather and stayed holed up in my room, staring up at the ceiling and weighing my options, listening to Holmes’ movements through the floor. 

This continued late into the night, as I tossed and turned until the moon shone brightly into my room. When I could keep my eyes closed no longer, I rose and looked out the window. The moon was bright that night, stripping every surface bare with its pale white light. A sense of restlessness seized me, and I knew sleep would not come that night. Finally, I could bear it no longer. I resolved to visit Mr. Phillips and tell him of the situation I had put him into. Though he might blame me, it was my fault he was in danger of being discovered, and I would have to fix it. Mind made up, I got dressed and slipped downstairs to get my coat. 

  
As I opened the door, a sliver of moonlight fell across the living room, revealing the form of Holmes in his armchair. Fear ran ice-cold down my spine that he had stayed up to catch me, but after my initial reaction, I observed that he was sleeping soundly. His chest rose peacefully up and down, rhythmic and comforting. The moonlight seemed to smooth out any lines of age that had grown into his face, making him appear as a some sort of fairy or spirit. That brilliant mind had finally taken a respite from the constant thought and observation that it cycled through during the day. 

The tableau he made cut to my heart, as I suddenly ached with love for him. I crossed the room, reaching his side and then hesitating. Up close, I could see the shadows playing across his face, the slight twitch of his fingers, the spray of his lashes resting above his cheekbones. The thin bend of his mouth whose movements I had been mesmerized by and memorized like a favorite book. His distinctive nose, the curve of it so dearly beloved to me. The carefully styled hair that had fallen out of place. The crumpled suit that had given up on propriety in the safety of our home. Overcome, I leaned forward and placed trembling lips on his brow. He stirred in his sleep, and I jerked back as if burnt, quickly making my way to the door, lips white-hot in shame. 

As my hand lingered upon the knob, I turned back to look at him once more before finally leaving. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Mr. Phillips’ apartment was not hard to find now that I had found it once before. The street was no more silent this night than it had been the other; Phillips played a strange melancholy tune I did not recognize. 

I went out into the street as I had the night before, and called quietly to gain his attention. 

“Phillips!” 

He stuck his head out inquisitively. “Oh!” he exclaimed softly when he saw me, “It’s you!” 

“Phillips, let me in. I have urgent news,” I pleaded.

Phillips disappeared into his rooms, but the door opened a moment later. 

“How do you know my name?” he asked, “I don’t think I told you.” The pale moonlight and his white nightgown made his skin appear a sickly shade. The circles under his eyes made the deep brown of them appear almost black. 

“I… have much to tell you, but it is important that we go inside,” I said, feeling my guts churn. 

He stepped back and led me upstairs to his apartment. The rooms were dark save for the feeble candle in the window. A sudden gust of wind swept through the apartment and the candle winked out, the only remains of that light a thin plume of smoke. Now, in naught but moonlight, the rooms were eerie and unsettling. Streaks of moonlight clawed through openings in the curtains, criss-crossing the sitting room. The rooms were in a state of disarray; books, clothes, and papers were distributed haphazardly across chairs and couches. Upon the only clean table sat a pristine violin case, opened with the instrument lying atop it. When the door closed behind us, he turned to face me, gaunt eyes dark and severe.

“My name is Dr. John Watson,” I began, “And I work with Sherlock Holmes.”

“The detective,” Phillips said, with a gleam of recognition.

“Holmes has-- Holmes is a lover of music. He watches your orchestra’s performances regularly.” I could feel Phillips’ dark gaze on me from across the room. “He holds your skill, particularly, in high esteem. So much so, that he does not believe that you could lose the concertmaster position to Mr. Pocket.”

“Then Mr. Holmes does not have as keen an ear as he is said to have an eye,” Mr. Phillips said coldly. “Mr. Pocket deserved the position over myself, and that is what has happened.”

“He is convinced,” I continued, “That Pocket has bribed you into stepping down from the position.”

“What?” Phillips exclaimed, “That’s outrageous! How dare you accuse Ellis of--”   
  


“Your new watch,” I said, “His upcoming marriage to a wealthy American.” I still could not say it aloud; I had to make my way towards it, until there was nothing to do except put it out in the open. 

“That watch was a gift,” Phillips said vehemently. “He was-- he was so  _ excited _ that he was getting married, and he,” Phillips paused, swallowing down some of the anger that had bubbled up, “He gave it to me to celebrate. He knew I couldn’t afford nice things, that my brother was sick.”

“I know,” I said.

“You know?”   
  


“I know he didn’t bribe you.”

Phillips’ face smoothed over. “Well, that’s -- that’s a relief. You’ll tell him then? Your Mr. Holmes?”

“No.”

“No?”   
  


“I know why you gave up the concertmaster position.”   
  
Phillips laughed, though I could hear the metallic nervousness that tinged it. “Fine, yes, I gave up the position. As I said, my brother is sick, and I needed time to take care of him, time that I wouldn’t have if I had the duties of concertmaster. Ask the director, that’s what I told him.”

“The extra pay would have helped your brother more, and I know that he has a wife that is taking care of him. Try harder. That wouldn’t fool Holmes for a second.”

Phillips laughed once more, his eyes wide and terrified. “I-- I guess I didn’t think it through.”   
  
“I know you’re in love with him,” I said, and it felt loud in that tiny apartment. The moon shone through the open window, casting light over Phillips’ face, exposing him to every scrutiny.

“Pocket is a good friend, but I wouldn’t say that I  _ love _ him,” Phillips denied.

“No. I know you’re in love with him,” I repeated, and I saw Phillips flinch. “I know that you lose track of the music on the page when you play with him, because you look over at him and you lose all sense of self. I know that,” and here I paused as my own feelings brimmed over, “I know he feels like home to you, and you are warm with him like with no other, I know that you follow his fingers with your eyes when he plays because you long for him to touch you, I know that he could ask for anything and you would give it to him, and I know--”

“Stop!” Phillips cried, and he lunged towards me. His hands closed around my neck and he pushed me against the wall. There was a loud crack as my back slammed against the wall and the air left my lungs. The strain of it burned me from the inside, but it was like a flickering match compared to the fire in him. “What do you know of love? Your advice was worthless! Were you here just to see me suffer? I thought you might be an angel sent to comfort me, but now I know that the angels only punish those like me. You would come here in the dead of night and presume to tell me how I feel and that I should die for it? My love for him is something that I will hold tight until the end of days, and I would rather kill you for it than let you kill me first.”

He had pushed me out of the reach of the moon, and from the little light I had, I could see only the liquid glint of his eyes and the flash of his teeth. His dark eyes burned into me, fierce and brimming with tears that threatened to spill over the red rims of his eyes. His arms trembled in indignation, but were strong in pinning me against the wall, stripping me of my breath. I raised my hands above my head, and struggled to choke out a plea. He froze, and the haze lifted from his eyes. His hands fell from my throat, still shaking in anger and fear.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, “I-- I don’t know what came over me.” He stumbled over to his couch, collapsing onto it. He buried his head in his hands. “Go. Report me to the authorities.”

I spluttered and coughed, lungs aching as I gasped for air. I steadied myself against the wall, then stood straight. “Phillips,” I said, “I’m on your side.”

The moonlight slid over the couch, and once more I could see the pale whiteness of his nightgown, and his dark hair, wild in its disarray. 

“I-- I’m like you,” I confessed, hearing it in the moonlight. The room was dead silent afterwards, so I steeled myself and continued. “I also know that when you feel love for him, you are ashamed, and that every glance at him may cost you your life, and that you hate yourself for it.” 

He stared at me, gaunt eyes studying every aspect of me until he came to a satisfactory conclusion.

“Your detective,” he said slowly. “Is he like us?”

“No,” I said. “That is why I have come.”

I sat down beside him, and we were both bathed in moonlight.

“First, tell me the true story.” I asked.

He sighed, brushing back his lanky black hair. All the fight had been drained out of him, and if I had seen him on the street, I would have asked him if he needed a doctor. He trembled slightly in the cool night air. I wordlessly draped my coat around his shoulders. He did not seem to notice. 

“Ellis was leaving. That American bought out his parents, and they were happy enough to send him away. He told me he was leaving in a week when he gave me the watch. That was when I got my idea. Perhaps if he was concertmaster, he would not leave. When auditions came, I tried to plausibly play poorly, but the director insisted on giving me another try. That was when I told him that my brother was ill and I did not wish for the duties of concertmaster. He agreed without much argument, for I threatened to leave otherwise. At my behest, he gave the position to Ellis. In truth, Joel is barely sick, and his wife is more than capable of caring for him. When Ellis told me the results, I was so happy I could barely breathe. He would stay for this season more, and then leave. The knowledge of his departure still eats me alive, but at least I have him for one season more.”

“Holmes already knows the truth about your brother. This won’t dissuade him,” I said.

Phillips nodded grimly. “You can tell him it was a bribe, if that will send him away. I only ask that you do not put it in the papers.” Phillips buried his head in his hands again, running them through his unkempt hair. “I am grateful that you are at his side and might protect me, but I am sorry you must love him in silence.”

The familiar fear had sprung up at his words, but I swallowed it down. “Yes,” I said, barely more than a whisper. I had never said it aloud before. Phillips gave me a small smile. 

At that moment, a rapid knocking came at the door. Phillips and I exchanged glances, and he rose to answer it. Out of reach of the moonlight, a dark figure stood cloaked in the doorway. 

“Watson, are you here?” Holmes asked. He cut a foreboding figure, wrapped in his coat and hat. I noticed with a pang that his hat was backwards; he must have raced here upon realizing I was gone. I wished to fix it, but kept my hands to myself. I stood from the couch.

“Watson, I--” he broke off upon seeing me. “You are hurt.” He rushed towards me and smoothed the bruises on my throat with his fingers. His touch ached.

“I will live,” I murmured. My throat closing up had nothing to do with Phillips’ fearful rage and everything to do with the gentle sweep of Holmes’ fingers.

He turned on Phillips murderously, stalking towards him. “I will crush your bones to the dust from which you came.” 

I grabbed his arm, holding him to my side. “Holmes, wait. It was a misunderstanding,” I assured him. I thought this might sway his anger, but it only seemed to ignite it more.

“A  _ misunderstanding _ ?” he hissed caustically, “Shall I deduce? He could have broken your neck; I can tell the pressure by the shape and color of the bruises. At the very least, he could have damaged your windpipe permanently. A lack of oxygen can cause brain injuries. You’re a doctor; must I tell you the effects of strangulation even after the victim has been released? Internal bleeding--”

“Holmes, stop!” I cried, for Phillips had begun to turn deathly pale and was shaking.    
  


“I did not mean to harm you, truly,” he babbled. “I was just-- I was just so scared, and I lost control--”

“Phillips, peace,” I soothed. “I am unharmed, save for the bruises.”

“We don’t know that yet,” Holmes interjected. His eyes narrowed like a fox’s in the twilight cast of the moon. “Why doesn’t Mr. Phillips explain what exactly he was afraid of?”

Phillips cast one last worried look at me, then seemed to steel himself to face Holmes’ judgement. Holmes narrowed his eyes and they engaged in a wordless contest. 

“Losing my position in the orchestra,” Phillips said finally. 

  
“Why?” 

“You are the detective.”

“I initially thought you had accepted a bribe to care for your sick brother,” Holmes admitted, “But my partner,” and here he cast a glance my way. The moon was rising and caught his eye, glinting like from a fine diamond. “Has always been convinced otherwise. Following his lead, I investigated the home of your brother, Joel Phillips, to find that he is well on the path to recovery without taking a cent from you. What could the money have been used for? I thought. Upon further observation, I noted that you had not sold the watch. If it had been a bribe, you would have immediately sold it to pay for your housing, not keep it on your wrist; no one would believe that you could afford it, compared to your other dress. Sentimental value, then; a parting gift from a colleague. So you knew he would leave anyways, but why prolong the inevitable?

I followed every other option I could think of; Pocket has no dire needs of money or position, you have no other responsibilities other than to the orchestra and your brother, no secret lover or dependent, no reason to let Pocket be concertmaster other than out of the kindness of your heart. But kindness would not have led you to fear for your life, as you so clearly did or you would not have assaulted my partner. So tell me, Jonathan Phillips, what have you done?”

Jonathan’s gaze flicked to me briefly. I saw an entire lifetime flicker across his face, reflected in his eyes, resolving in a firm determination. “I fell in love,” he declared to Holmes, looking him in the eyes. “I will tell you the whole story. Watson knows, I have told him before you arrived.”

“Continue,” was all Holmes said, focused razor sharp on Phillips.

“My first love was the violin,” Phillips began. “The pure tone, the fickle harshness that changed to sweet, the passion it could contain, all drew me towards it. As I grew older, I tended to practice my violin while all the other boys chased girls. I took it to mean that I had found my true love in its wooden beauty, and was satisfied.”

I spared a glance at Holmes. He was enraptured, staring at Phillips with a burning scrutiny and disbelief. 

“That is, until I met Ellis. He played so wildly that I could not believe that he was allowed in our orchestra at first. I went up to him one day, set on discreetly asking if he would not be better off elsewhere, when he looked up at me and smiled so sweetly, asking me for help because he felt that he was not playing a section correctly and he could not see the first stand from where he sat. Against my better judgement, I agreed to help him. Everything that I have done regarding Ellis has been against my better judgement. In the years that followed, his wild fervor refined itself into the musician you see today; brilliant and still untamed.

I may well be better than he, regarding technique, calculation, and forethought, but I have never seen Ellis’ drive and passion replicated elsewhere. Despite my actions, I do believe that he deserves the position of concertmaster.

Later, when we led the second violins together, I looked over one day to see the sweat forming on his brow. We were playing Dvorak’s New World Symphony, and it was the last movement. His electric focus and fiery passion mesmerised me, and I lost my place in the music. He noticed, and whispered the measure number to me with a grin. That was the first time I realized the violin was no longer my sole love. I am sure you can figure out the rest, Mr. Holmes.”

I gauged Holmes’ reaction to the tale; there were no outbursts of disgust, nor disavowment of the lifestyle, and in that I took small comfort. Holmes seemed made of granite to me; he was perfectly still and seemed to reflect any light that hit him. “You did not want to lose him,” he said roughly, “So you did anything you could to make him stay.”

Phillips nodded. “That is correct.” He paused, “But he will still leave after the season.”

I felt a sympathetic ache for Phillips. I felt engaged in his troubles as surely as if it were my own heart, and I was desperate to see him happy. He was a reflection of myself, as surely as looking in a mirror. 

“Would he leave if he knew?” I asked. Both men looked at me in confusion. “If Pocket knew how you felt about him, would he leave?”

“You  _ are _ a kind man, Dr. Watson,” Phillips replied, heartfelt, “But I do not believe so. I will not risk hatred and disgust for a pipe dream; I would rather part from him in friendship.”

“You will part from him anyways,” Holmes said, his voice a surprising but welcome addition, “You are a fool if you do not tell him. If you think that just because he has no cause to mourn, he will not, you are wrong.”

“But what will I say?” Phillips asked, voice wavering. The sun was beginning to appear over the rooftops now, and the chill of the moon was slowly lifting. 

“Did you not just have a great speech about your love? You are procrastinating, Mr. Phillips,” Holmes rebutted, with a slight smile. I looked up at him sharply, surprised that he would openly condone such a thing. He met my gaze, open and relaxed, full of the soft contentment he felt when all the pieces were in place and all was right in the world once more. The blossom of hope once more opened within me, and this time I was not inclined to prune it. 

“I-- you are right,” Phillips sighed. “I take this to mean that you won’t report me to the police?”

Holmes had lost interest in Phillips at this point, and was watching me intently, though not with any sort of scrutiny or confusion. No, he seemed like he was watching an early sunrise and was in a quiet awe of its constancy and beauty. 

“I think that would make us very hypocritical,” Holmes said contemplatively, still watching me. 

“Oh,” Phillips said, a delighted murmur. The tenseness seemed to drain out of him, and he let out a small laugh of relief. “This is indeed a surprise.” He looked back and forth between the two of us, a knowing grin on his lips. The light of early morning had begun to reach through the window, and he glanced outwards. “I think the two of you had better head on home now; I trust you have much to discuss.”

“Yes,” I said, though my throat had seemed to close up. Nothing made sense in my mind, and I felt as though I was stuck in some type of mud, struggling to wade out.  _ Us, us, us _ repeated in my mind as I numbly followed Holmes out the door, accompanied by Phillips’ genial wave. So I was not alone in my affections? Or simply he was of the same inclination as I, and had no extraordinary feelings towards me. I was too petrified to allow myself to hope for anything at this moment; my budding flower of hope was frozen in glass. 

Everything felt as though it hung precariously in the balance; a fragile tipping point that could not be maintained indefinitely. We walked home in silence, relishing the newborn sunlight on our faces. Our hands dangled between each other, brushing every so often. The streets were just becoming alive, and we walked all the faster for it to avoid the waking populace. I felt as if I were in a scene out of a fairy-tale, where nothing seemed real and everything might fall away at a touch. 

When we arrived, we lingered silently in the sitting room, neither willing to speak first. Holmes brushed his fingers along the mantle, coating his fine fingers in a thin dust layer. 

“How long have you been in love with me?” he asked, nonchalant. He did not look at me, only at the various papers and paraphernalia that adorned our mantle. 

Somehow, I was not surprised. I knew this was coming. “Forever, I think. My entire life.”

Holmes snorted. “It cannot be your whole life. We have only met in adulthood.”

“I think my life started when I met you.”

“When did you realize, then?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I answered, “I think it grew on me until one day I acknowledged it as fact. It was sometime near the end of the first year, I think.” I waited in agony for his reply as Holmes continued to inspect the mantel. I yearned with my whole body for him to gaze upon me with as much focus as he did that mantel. “I am not a selfish love,” I insisted when he would not respond, “I am happy to let you go if you do not want me.” It was in this moment that I knew what Jonathan Phillips had been trying to tell me; my love itself may be selfish, but I was not a selfish lover. Though it might destroy me, I would not keep Holmes if he did not want to be kept. 

Holmes turned to me now, eyes open and tender as I have never seen them before. I felt in moonlight once again, and in my mind’s eye, it flooded our humble sitting room and made it shine like a frozen lake. “The first year,” Holmes echoed in awe. He swept towards me, clasping my hands. Confused, I caught his eye and was shocked by the naked reverence he displayed.

“My dear Watson, I believe I have made an embarrassing error and oversight in my deduction skills,” he said, “Do forgive me?”

“I doubt that you could have made such a grave oversight,” I answered shakily. 

“No, it is grave indeed. For you see, I only realized I loved you mere hours ago,” he said earnestly, then kissed my hand. “But now, once I see, I truly  _ see _ , I am agonized by all the time we missed.”

“Holmes,” I laughed giddily, “You love me? You love me. I thought-- I thought I caught a glimpse, once or twice, but I was never sure. You love me.”   
  


“I love you,” he affirmed, twining his fingers with mine. He looked up at me expectantly. Despite the seriousness of the situation, I laughed. 

“What?” he asked, affronted.

“Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to deduce that I loved him before I could say it myself,” I said, and then I kissed him. He responded eagerly, then pulled back, wide-eyed and excited.

“Wait! You must let me explain, I had it all planned out, on the way here, I--” he exclaimed, sliding his hands to my shoulders. 

“I’m sure that is very nice and sweet,” I said, “But I have other things in mind.”

“Wait,” he commanded once more, “Does this mean I must learn a fiddle tune for you?”

  
I paused. “Yes,” I decided. “Yes, you must play for me for the rest of your life.”

And then I kissed him once more and he said no more words. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


I woke slowly on the couch in our living rooms, limbs entangled with his long ones. The morning sun entered through the windows like a stretching cat, lazy and limber. My mouth was dry as I yawned quietly, sitting up. The dawn of a new day filled me with bright-eyed hope of new beginnings and new futures that rosy-cheeked dawn had pulled the curtain from. I smiled blissfully into the morning rays. 

My companion shifted beside me. I glanced down at him, stricken by the contrast between his face now and the one I had seen in the moonlight only the night before. Yesterday, he had seemed like an otherworldly apparition, an aerial spirit upon my shipwrecked isle. Today, he was breathtakingly human and tangible, as much a piece of our Baker Street as the skull upon the mantel. I had been afraid to touch him then, yet now, I mirrored my past self and kissed his brow with no fear. 

“Good morning, Dr. Watson,” came a voice from behind me. I startled, and the form beneath me mumbled in his sleep. Mrs. Hudson set down the breakfast tray on the table and turned to take us in. “Well, I’ll say.”

“I-- Please don’t turn us in,” I pleaded hurriedly.

“It’s about time you boys got together,” she continued. Her expression turned scandalized at my words. “Now, I may not be a perfect landlady, but I’d like to think that you’d think better of me than  _ that _ .”

“I-- I’m sorry,” I said faintly.

“Breakfast is ready, though I haven’t made the tea yet. It looks like I was right; you’ll want to sleep a little longer.”

“Oh,” I said, looking down at Holmes’ sleeping face. 

“Neither of you have gotten enough sleep lately. Now, you go right back to sleep. I’ll make sure you’re undisturbed,” Mrs. Hudson continued, smiling warmly at me. 

“Oh,” I said again, feeling a little choked, “ _ Thank _ you, Mrs. Hudson,” I said, immensely relieved we could take her into our confidence. 

  
  


And when Holmes woke, I kissed him gently and we watched the sun rise high in the sky.

  
  
  
  


I am recording this now, because recently we have received two tickets to see the London Symphonic Orchestra’s new performance, a year later. We have gone to performances between now and then, of course. Mr. Phillips gives us a nod when he notices us; he has since become the director! However, this performance is different because of the programme, and the note it came with. Here is its transcription:

_ Dear Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes, _

_ I cannot be more thankful for your intervention last year. Everything has worked out splendidly, though I cannot go into much detail in this letter. Ellis has ended his engagement to the American, and we share an apartment now. Though neither of us is rich, we are happy. _

_ I’m sure you’ve heard that I have been given the post of orchestra director, while Ellis plays as my concertmaster. I would like to take this wonderful opportunity to thank you by giving you tickets to the first performance I will be conducting. The programme is rather unorthodox, but I have a feeling you will like it. _

_ You will of course remember the significance of the Overture and Concerto, as well as the Symphony. I am pleased to announce that we will have a guest musician at this performance, which I am immeasurably excited to conduct.  _

_ Many thanks, _

_ Jonathan Phillips _

_ Orchestra director, London Symphonic Orchestra _

  
  


And the attached programme:

_ PROGRAMME _

_ La Campanella - N. Paganini (Soloist: Sherlock Holmes)  _

_ Romeo and Juliet Overture - P. I. Tchaikovsky _

_ Violin Concerto in E Minor - F. Mendelssohn-Bartholdy (Soloist: Ellis Pocket) _

_ Symphony No. 9 - A. Dvorak _

  
  


“Holmes!” I called upon reading it. He was in the middle of shaving, and stuck his head out of the bathroom door.

“What is this?” I asked, waving the letter in the air. “A solo in an orchestra performance? Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Ah. It arrived,” he said, having the decency to look at least slightly abashed. 

“Well, at least this explains why you’ve been playing nothing but that one piece lately; you’ve been practicing,” I said.

“Yes,” he replied. “It was going to be a surprise,” he continued, “But Phillips had to put my name on the program though I expressly told him not to!”

“Dear,” I said, placatingly placing a hand on his arm, “That was very romantic of you.”

He scoffed, though it was half-hearted. I placed a kiss on his wet cheek, which still smelled of shaving cream.

“I am forever a romantic when it comes to you,” he mumbled, leaning into my touch. I smiled against his cheek.

  
  
  


When we arrived at call time for the concert, Phillips eagerly waved us over. Holmes had been restless on the way over, fiddling with the clasps on his violin case nervously. I had to dissuade him from taking it out on the carriage over to pluck through his piece. 

“Dr. Watson! Mr. Holmes!” he exclaimed, briefly embracing us both. “It is good to see you!”

Jonathan Phillips looked a sight different from the man who had leaned out his window to speak with me. He was worlds healthier and more energetic than last I had seen him up close.

“Dr. Watson, I will show you to your seat,” he gestured animatedly to the front row.

I took my seat and watched Phillips disappear with Holmes behind the curtain. Before long, the practicing orchestra quieted and Ellis Pocket walked onstage and the applause began. Pocket seemed more comfortable with his role at this performance than he had been at the first I had seen him at; he had grown into his role. Pocket tuned the orchestra, then Phillips entered, to raucous applause. He shared an excited grin with Pocket, before addressing the crowd. He quickly described the pieces they were going to play, then invited Holmes onstage to perform his concerto.

“And now, this famous detective will take some time away from his cases to play for us! Please welcome, Sherlock Holmes!” Phillips announced, and Holmes made his way onstage. He was as I have never seen him; resplendent in the black and white tuxedo custom to orchestra players, awash in the glow of the stage lamps. His fingers tapped against his Stradivarius, no doubt to the rhythm of his solo. I was suddenly transported to another life, in which he was the star performer in the orchestra and I the hopeless patron, desperate for a glimpse of him and attending his concerts religiously. I do believe he could easily have been a performing musician in another life, if not this one. Holmes bowed stiffly, then looked to Phillips. 

Phillips nodded, and Holmes began the quick jaunt of the Paganini concerto. It was a playful but clearly technically difficult piece, though Holmes seemed to manage it without any sign of effort. He moved with the music, every spiccato jump accented by his own person. The orchestra accompaniment seemed woefully inadequate alongside the brilliant, shimmering notes that leaped from Holmes’ violin. So riveted was I to his form, I did not notice the applause that accompanied its ending until Holmes removed his violin from his shoulder and took a shaky bow. 

“Thank you,” he rumbled when the applause died away, quickly exiting the stage. I slipped away to meet him backstage. 

“You were fantastic!” I exclaimed when I saw him. Now that I saw him in person, I could see the sweat that formed a sheen over his face and the exhaustion in his body, reclining in a chair behind the curtain. He sat up at once when he saw me and leapt out of his chair.

“You liked it?” he asked fervently.

“Liked it? Holmes, I’ve never heard any music more beautiful in my life!” I assured him, holding him steady with a hand on his arm. 

He seemed to relax at this, quick strength sapped. “Good. I-- I hoped you would.”

“Of course I did,” I murmured, checking around us, then pressing a swift kiss to his temple. “Shh, they’re starting the next piece.” 

Holmes took my hand and led me up the stairs, finding a hidden place above the rafters where we could look below and see the orchestra. The sound surrounded us there, loud and beautiful and all-encompassing. The overture was just beginning, the warm sound of horns emanating up from the orchestra. 

“It was for you,” he told me, holding my hands beside the warm golden lamps. “One year ago, I told you that I had yet to explain my love for you. Does this suffice?” 

“Oh,” I said, thinking of the performance and the passion he had poured into it, more than I had ever seen him do on any case, and the emotion I had heard in the sweet sound that he often had difficulty with expressing in words. “I think it does,” I answered, leaning into his embrace. It felt right, being beside him, just like it always had, and I no longer feared that he wished to leave. I recalled the swimming uncertainty I had been caught in a year before, and it seemed like something out of a strange dream, for I was surer of his love for me than I was of the integrity of the stones of which the strongest London buildings are made.

Beneath us, the string section joined the song.

  
  
  
  


_ Footnote:  _ I think that I will copy the contents of this “case” into a nice notebook, after revision of course. I am sure that Holmes will appreciate the sentiment of me expressing my love for him via my artistic talents, as he has done for me. It will make a nice anniversary gift. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i think i got possessed by the ghost of a gay victorian man still pining for lost love while writing this.  
also am writing a sequel maybe?? please talk to me about orchestra and acd.


End file.
